“Well, I don’t know about you, but I slept like a log,” she replied, having had her best night’s sleep in weeks. It might have been short, but it was deep.
Leopold was watching the alien craft drifting effortlessly toward the horizon.
“Gives me chills,” he said to no one in particular.
Bower understood why Leopold found the alien presence unnerving, but for her, once the fear passed, the mystique of an apparently living interstellar spacecraft awakened a sense of awe within her. She saw an object of beauty, moving with grace as it glided through the heavens.
Kowalski must have seen her staring into the sky. “Well,” he said. “Seems they’re happy to circle around up there, and that’s fine by me.”
“I wonder what they’re thinking about, what they’re planning,” Bower said, thinking aloud.
“Crop circles and anal probes, no doubt,” Kowalski joked.
“I’m in no hurry to find out,” Leopold added.
“Don’t you think it’s beautiful?” Bower asked, again musing out loud, trying to articulate what she was feeling.
“Maybe,” Kowalski offered in an answer that was little more than a polite way of disagreeing. “In the same way a rattlesnake or a shark can be considered beautiful.”
“I’m serious,” she replied, surprised by the emphasis in her tone of voice. “I mean, think about it, just because something is different doesn’t mean it can’t be beautiful. And not just in the way a butterfly is pretty, with colorful patterns painted on its wings. Beautiful as in delightful, functional, like a bee or an octopus. Even the most boring of birds, with dull brown feathers, has a natural beauty about it, and I can’t help but feel the same way about this. There’s a natural beauty to the alien spacecraft. I mean, it’s not a pile of nuts and bolts like our spaceships. And it’s not streamlined or aerodynamic, with sleek curves and sharp points. It’s not from this world and yet it has an earthy feel to it, as though it were something that could grace the cover of National Geographic.”
Neither man said anything. Bower continued her train of thought.
“I guess we see what we want to see, right? Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder… The more I think about how they’ve traversed a gazillion miles through empty space, looking for our tiny mote of dust awash in this vast universe, the less I’m afraid. They came to us. They sought us out. They want to know about us. Isn’t that flattering? Here we are, looking up at them in awe, wondering who they are and what makes them tick, and they’re looking down upon us thinking the same thing. That’s kinda cool, and certainly nothing to be afraid of.”
The alien craft slipped over the horizon, disappearing from sight behind the distant buildings.
“Yeah, I guess,” Kowalski offered.
Her words must have stirred the journalist within Leopold. As he spoke, Bower got the distinct impression he was making mental notes for an upcoming article.
“My father used to tell me that fear is our default response to the unknown. It’s a survival mechanism, an instinctive reaction over a reasoned response. Our history is checkered with xenophobia, the fear of something different, different people from different countries, different cultures. We’re tribal. We like people to be the same as us.”
Leopold was divorcing himself, straightening his thinking. For Bower, it was interesting to see him reasoning through what she instinctively felt. That he was able to suspend his own fears and assume her hopes surprised her, but perhaps that’s what reporters did best; place themselves in another person’s shoes.
“And we’ve conditioned ourselves to respond like this. Really, it’s no surprise we’re overreacting and panicking about an alien invasion. When was the last time Hollywood showed someone turning up on our doorstep with anything other than death rays? Blood and guts with a splash of acid gets asses on seats. Hell, we can’t accept foreigners from Colombia or Sudan without an air of suspicion, wondering if they’re terrorists or drug runners. What hope does someone from another planet have? Someone wears a turban in a mall and Al Qaeda’s attacking.”
Kowalski laughed.
“Think of what we’ll learn,” Bower said, quietly wishing the star ship would land. She wanted to say more, but words failed her. It had taken some time to acclimatize to the concept, but she was genuinely excited about the future. The prospect of getting out of a country sliding deeper into civil war was the furthest thing from her mind. She just assumed that would happen. It was a trivial detail, something that paled in comparison to First Contact. Mortality itself seemed suspended by the alien spacecraft with its iridescent glow at night and its rippling surface in the bright daylight. Life trumped death, at least in that moment. Life coming from another star caused the pain and suffering and misery she saw in Africa to fade like the night giving way to dawn.
“This,” Kowalski began, having lost his initial skepticism, “this really could be a new beginning for the human race.” His acceptance of her position, and his readiness to move away from pessimism filled her with hope. Deep down, Bower knew it was unfounded and irrational, but she held to hope regardless. With hope and fear as equal possibilities, why not choose the positive? With hope, she could pretend Africa would one day be at peace. With hope, she could forget about the hundreds that would die that day in the swollen heat, victims of a futile war.
Jameson came jogging down the stairs with Elvis, Bosco and Smithy behind him.
Elvis paused on the last step. Stretching his arms out wide, he cried out, “Elvis has left the building,” and stepped down onto the road like royalty.
“You’re such an idiot,” Bosco said, slapping him on the shoulder.
The other soldiers appeared from down the long, open corridor and climbed into the Hummer, throwing the last of their packs in the truck.
Jameson glanced at Bower. Something in his eyes snapped Bower back to reality; he seemed to sense her glassy-eyed enthusiasm. She didn’t dare offer her thoughts to him.
Elvis was chewing gum as he called out to Jameson and Bower, saying, “Y’all still want me to come witcha?”
“You pulled the short straw,” Jameson replied. “You’re babysitting yet again.”
Elvis spat his gum out on the ground and climbed into the driver’s side of the truck.
Leopold stood there warmly waving goodbye as Bosco drove the Hummer out of the dusty courtyard, followed by the truck. Kowalski was in the Hummer with the rest of the Rangers, while Jameson and Bower sat in the cab of the truck with Elvis. Smithy stood in the turret of the Hummer with the lightweight SAW machine gun mounted on rails, daring a challenge. With her helmet, dark shades, bullet-proof vest and camouflage clothing she looked every bit a soldier. Bower had no doubt about her resolve.
The main street was already crowded, with Africans wanting to conduct their trade before the heat of the day made the city unbearable. The stench of raw sewage wafted through the air. As the two-vehicle convoy wound its way through the streets there was a sense of surprise at seeing Americans driving around the city. Some of the Africans waved, most just stared. Whether that was out of exasperation or indifference, Bower wasn’t sure.
Artillery shells rained down on the western suburbs. Clouds of dark smoke rose in thin columns in the still air. From what Bower could tell, they weren’t in any immediate danger as they were heading south and the barrage was barely audible over the sound of the rattly diesel engine, but the faces she passed had a sense of helplessness to them. What she’d thought was exasperation or indifference was neither, these people were resigned to being abandoned. In her mind, she found herself struggling with the identity of the people they passed. A woman not much older than Bower, with a young child in hand, stared at her with wide eyes longing for pity. Bower felt as though the woman could see right through her.